WHQ - Heroes of Harksheide

Image - The Coalition of Convenience formed at Lehmitz Tavern Die Alten Hofs lingered in the Elven Wood longer than they had planned, their wounds not only of the body but of the soul needed healing. The forest offered some balm—its light filtered softly through the amber-green canopy, birdsong echoed like fragments of forgotten lullabies, and the scent of pine and bloom dulled the sharper pains of loss. But time, even in an Elven realm, marched on.   Helga was the first to leave. Ever restless, her heart called to the salty wind of the sea. “The tides will not wait for grief,” she had said. “And Helgoland does not forgive delay.” She embraced each of her companions with a firmness that belied her sadness, but by the time the party woke the next morning, she was already gone—her trail fading into the eastbound paths of the forest.   Sundras vanished next. No words, no farewells—only the silent departure of shadows. One of the Elven scouts swore they saw a flicker of dark m...

  Image - The Sacrifice of Eryndor Iluviel The company approached the towering gates of the Labyrinth, where the Elven Guard stood in solemn formation. Their emerald cloaks shimmered faintly in the pale dawn light, motionless as carved statues. At their head was Galadran, Captain of the Guard, a figure of elven grace and steely resolve. His once-bright eyes were now dimmed by weariness, and deep lines creased his brow—scars not of battle, but of grief. Galadran stepped forward as the group halted. His voice, though clear, was heavy with the burden of recent loss. “Hail and well met, Jederman the Barbarian,” he said with a slow nod. “And with you, the company of the Alten Hofs. A noble band for a noble cause—if your hearts still burn with justice. But what is this? A dwarf among you?” His gaze narrowed, scanning the stout figure beside the others. “And where is Erendriel? For I suspect it is Eryndor whom you seek… and yet I see not his brother.” Jederman stepped forward, his f...

Image – Die Alten Hofs, Crew 02 outside Lehmitz Tavern – Left to right; Sundras Tilbarg – Assassin, Helga of Helgoland – Bretonnian Knight Shield Maiden, Jederman – Barbarian, Drugen Greyfoot – Dwarf Brewmaster, Gwendolyn Woods – Wizard The flickering lanterns of the Lehmitz Tavern cast golden pools of light on the cobbled square of Kleiner Alter Hof, as dusk deepened into night. The familiar warmth of the old stone tavern spilled from its wide doors and shuttered windows, inviting the weary and the adventurous alike. Inside, the scent of spiced meats, oak smoke, and strong ale mingled with the laughter of locals and the melodies of a half-drunk bard plucking a lute. At a round table in a quiet alcove beneath a faded mural of Saint Graelor's Last Stand, the surviving members of Des Alten Hofs had gathered once again—though not in full strength. Erendriel Iluvator, Drow Elf Blade-singer was absent. The demands for his bardic ayres were high and he was travelling far and wide to give...

Image - Drow Elf Bard - Erendriel Illuvatar twin brother of Eryndor The village of Kleiner Alter Hof nestled in the shadow of the Eldrath cliffs, its timbered houses warmed by hearth fires, its fields heavy with spring grain. It was a place of modest folk, who sang to the harvest gods and honoured the old pacts with the mountain. Few dared approach the entrance to the Heldenschmiede Labyrinth, the black wound in the mountain’s face that yawned with ancient threat. But this night, no song rose. The wind carried something bitter. The Bard, Eryndor Iluvatar, twin brother to the famed Lehmitz Tavern bard, stood on the chapel steps, plucking a slow melody from his moonwood harp. His silver hair caught the starlight, and his voice, always calm and sad, echoed across the square. The people of Kleiner Alter Hof listened in silence. And then came the scream. The first torch was seen atop the western ridge. Then another. Then twenty. Like fireflies born of hate, they descended—raiders, armoured ...

Image - Eleri's Sacrifice. Trapped in the Well of Doom, with shifting sands and fighting an Ogre allows Hockrup to avoid the rockfall and make good an escape with the Sword of True Kinship. Inside, the Labyrinth breathed with the weight of memory. Corridors stretched ahead, flanked by flickering braziers whose flames cast dancing shadows along stone walls carved with runes and names—heroes who had dared this place before, and never returned. The air was dry, layered with the dust of centuries. They passed murals depicting trials—giants felled, dragons chained, brothers slain. In one faded image, a knight raised a sword high, only to be stabbed in the back by a friend. “Not all who seek the sword are worthy,” Eleri murmured. A narrow corridor revealed itself, partially hidden by rubble from a collapsed column. They squeezed through and turned right, stepping into a shadowed passage where even the torches seemed to flicker with unease. A shriek broke the stillness. Then ano...

Image - Eleri and Hockrup meet up at the Christmas market outside of the Lehmitz Tavern It was in the frosted weeks before Yuletide, when the snow began to settle like powdered lace on the cobblestones of Kleiner Alter Hof, that Hockrup met once more with Eleri. The streets bustled with townsfolk swaddled in cloaks and woollen scarves, their breath curling in the chill air like dragon smoke. The scent of roasted chestnuts, beeswax candles, and spiced glühwein drifted over the market square, mingling with the sounds of carollers and the clink of coin. Hockrup, a towering Pitfighter with a scar-laced jaw and the bearing of one who had spent more time in the blood-slick sands of the arena than under open sky, moved through the crowd like a prowling bear. Despite his fearsome reputation—many a tale told of him breaking a man’s helm with his bare hands—his eyes lit up when he spotted her. Eleri, the Wizardess of the Hedgerows, stood by a vendor stall inspecting bundles of dried winter h...

Image – The final Objective chamber, the Tomb Chamber where Die Alten Hofs face the final challenge and must first dispatch the Halberd Guard and the two tomb priests Die Alten Hofs descended the obsidian stairs of the Harksheide’s Gate. The air grew colder, fouler, with each step. Dust hung in the air like ash, and the stones whispered of old screams. At the first crossroad, they paused. Gwendolyn traced the magical ley lines with her staff; the path eastward pulsed weakly with necrotic energy. They moved forward cautiously, passing crumbled murals of forgotten saints and rusted iron grates. Soon they entered a large, iron-doored chamber—the hinges screeched as they were pried open. Inside, a Torture Chamber, long abandoned. The walls were blackened with old blood, and iron maidens and racks lay broken across the floor. Skeletons hung from chains. One corpse, a decayed soldier, slumped beside an overturned brazier. Jederman stepped forward, lifting the body and turning it gently. From...